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Saturday, 30 March 2013

Feature: Smut Alfresco edited by Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse

Smut Alfresco

Edited
by Lucy Felthouse and Victoria Blisse

Sex in the great outdoors is the theme of this erotic
anthology, edited by Victoria Blisse and Lucy Felthouse.

From the dramatic gritstone escarpments of Derbyshire’s Peak
District, to a quiet caravan site in deepest Wales, Smut Alfresco has it all.
Whatever your interpretation of frisky outdoor fun, there’s something nestling
between the covers for you.

Violet slammed down the lid of her laptop with far more
force than was necessary. She flinched, thinking perhaps she might have cracked
the screen or broken one of the machine’s internal components. Then she
shrugged, realising she didn’t care if she had. It was her work’s computer,
after all, not hers. If it was fucked, they’d have to replace it. And it would
serve them right, too. Bastards.

The reason she was pissed off was the fact she was in work
at all. It was Saturday, and the previous afternoon her useless boss had dumped
a project on her, stating it had to be finished by Monday, no matter how long
it took. He’d then added that he was going away for the weekend, meaning it was
all down to her. The selfish, disorganised wanker. It wouldn’t be so bad, but
she hadn’t had a pay rise for two years, and when she went above and beyond for
her job, she didn’t get so much as a thank you, let alone be paid any overtime.
It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened, either.

Well, fuck them. She wasn’t going to be a doormat—or her
boss’ scapegoat—any more. Let them try and sack her—she wasn’t doing anything
remotely wrong, and they couldn’t make her working life any more hellish than
it already was.

She stood up sharply, sending her swivel chair careening
backwards across the room until it hit the wall. She shrugged again, she still
didn’t care. Let it chip the fucking paintwork, or a bust a hole in the
plasterboard. No one else was there, so nobody could prove or disprove that it
had been an accident.

Pausing to switch the lights off—she was pissed off at her
employers, not the environment—she left the offices, setting the alarm before
closing the door behind her. Stuffing her access swipe card into her handbag,
she heaved a sigh of relief. There would probably be hell to pay for her stunt
on Monday, but she’d worry about that then. Right now, she was just desperate
to get out. Into the countryside, or, given she was in central London, to a
green space, at the very least.

From where she worked, Green Park was probably the closest,
but she figured Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens were bigger, so she’d be more
likely to find a secluded spot where she could just be by herself. The last
thing she needed now was to have to deal with other people.